


GUN-SHORN AND WING-BLOODED

by saturnsage



Category: Sons of Satan:The Mortal Coil
Genre: Biblical References, Canon-Typical Violence, Other, this game is honestly so sexy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 14:08:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17623847
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saturnsage/pseuds/saturnsage
Summary: if you kiss a fallen angel's knuckle bruises, they'll inhale a sharp breath. they're not meant to be touched, merely scorned.and so you re-write what you can or can not do for him.





	GUN-SHORN AND WING-BLOODED

**Author's Note:**

> *cocks gun* play this game or ill make you

one day you’ll be  stopped by alice sitting on your work desk and she’ll be chewing some tobacco with her thumbs and she’ll ask you “I’m not religious.” and you’ll answer “neither am i” and she’ll frown. then she’ll stare at you one eye closed to get a good look at your face and she’ll ask you “what does god sound like?” and you’ll answer truthfully.   
  
“god sounds like the radiator back in the break room, or like the coffee-machine that keeps the coffee too hot. he sounds like-“ you stop and you’ll think hard and then you’ll decide “he sounds like a woman’s belly-laugh and a man’s gulps of air.”   
  
then alice would grunt, and she’ll turn the tobacco in between her thumbs to dust and brush the remains on her denim thighs. a man’s breathlessness and a woman’s joy and the snap of the air right as you reach the earth’s ozone. she’ll stare out up on the linoleum ceiling of your office and she’ll watch that moth constantly buzz into the lightbulb.   
  
“does god know the name of that fly?” she asks.   
  
“he hasn’t talked to us in a long time” you answer.

“whats it like being an angel?” she asks. she doesn’t really care, she’s not religious, and neither are you.   
  
“like I’m a gun. like one day god will turn off the safety and ill turn into nothing but the ugly straight line of a dead boy. like these hands i’ve got on right now feel tight and if i jump i wont fall and if i die then my name won’t exist anymore.”

then alice would whistle a long pitying song and you’ll remember how you haven’t sang since you couldn’t swallow the broken wood splinters ramiel had stuffed into the holes of your throat.

he’ll sit on the other side of the room when you’ll remember that, and he won’t hear you.

alice will then ask in that way she does when she’s done asking, and she’ll ask “is it true there’s a war?” and when you hear the word war you think: colorless liminal ley lines and steaming lilypads with frog mucus coating the flowers. that dead bird the dog half-ate and the cats with the oily-fish skin and the homicides you don’t and won’t flinch at because you’re not a killer, you’re just a sword and a prayer. canvas-tent flaps over pick up trucks carrying rusted couches underneath and weeds living on despite the chemicals. deers jumping in front of suvs wild-eyed and snakes biting their own tails.   
  
you’ll pray then to yourself in that creaky old three-legged work desk and you’ll ask  _God? God? God? God? God? God? God? God? God? God? God? God? God? God?_  
  
God?God?God?God?GOD?GOD?GOD?GOD?GOD?GOD?GOD?GOD GOD GOD GOD GOD  
  
“alice.” ramiel will say, and he’ll touch your shoulder so gently you’ll forget that last broken knee-jerk reaction. you’ll snap out of it and you’ll see your fingertips white with how hard you hold your tea-mug.  your eyes will snap up and look at his tall, exoskeletal frame, and he’ll put a bit of pressure from where he’s dragging you from the bomb shelter that is your praying.   
  
alice notices the strained hands and ramiel’s strained smile. she won’t get it until ramiel says “next time, don’t ask.” and he’ll wink at her and then she’ll get it.   
  
he’ll look at you and you won’t be able to tell what the hell he’s thinking. maybe he’s thinking about how god used to talk to him too, until his kin broke one of his wings and painted them ugly and threw him down to the pits. maybe he’s thinking about you and micheal and israfel. maybe he’s thinking about his kids. maybe he’s thinking about conflicted loyalties and cut off wills.   
  
you’ll shudder as you exhale. he’ll bring your forehead to his, careful to not use his grace. “gabriel,” he’ll whisper. “take a break. you’re human, at least for a little while.”   
  
“i think i will die if i try,” you answer, because you’re honest. alice bites her cheek angrily in the corner of your vision.   
  
ramiel sighs. “no, you won’t” he’ll say, and he’ll step away, face tired. “you won’t.”   
  
alice won’t ask you questions about war anymore.

______  
  


in the beginning god created feathers and eyes and saw that it was good. in the beginning god was already infinite and he crafted his first son and turned it to something boiling. in the beginning he gave it life and it was as molten as god’s bare heels and god told it to fight.

in the beginning the first angel raised it’s twelve pairs of wings and sang, and in it’s right hand it held a morningstar, and in its left it held the head of it’s harvest. in it’s right hand it carried it’s club heavy and gored, and in it’s left it held the scalps of half-gods from different universes by their hair.   
  
and god saw that it was good, in the ugliest ways. and he named the angel lucifer, and lucifer flew the universe singing, wings too big to crush.   
  
and god saw that is was good, so he created more, for it isn’t well for something to have no companions. and then he built an army, all teeth and wings and eyes and scream-singing praises to him.

and lucifer created something as well. for lucifer was the first, the first and last, and the last, and all he wanted was to create something good, good and in the prettiest ways.

so he created you.

and you are steel-silver feathers that glint off your dagger, and you do not sing because that will give away the thorns in your fingertips, and instead you fly fast and fly faster. and you are black eyes which repel black-holes, you are the thousands of snuffed angers that were shut by the setting sun. you are the hundreds of stubbed toes driving into nails. you are nothing but anger, but the silent fury.

once, god picked you up by the wings and showed you a city. ‘kill it’, he said. ‘kill every man, every woman, every boy and every girl and every swaddled babe. leave nothing but the brimstone and nether rock that lines your sinews, and give them what they have asked of me. they mocked my name, and they rebuked my will. show them what they will see when i cast them down to the pits of the sinful.’   
  
for a century after that day you followed god’s will, your wings were glory-hate red, dripping with human blood wherever you flew. your eyes spilled forth salt. your skin tasted like burned bodies. micheal reached out to touch you, and your grace cracked in half.

wrath of god, they called you. wrath of god. 

you ruined three cities more.

you will ruin empires yet.

_____

you will ruin yourself.   
  
you want to ruin yourself.   
  
but ramiel doesn’t let you.   
  
instead, he holds your hand when you reach out for him and kisses your wrist, feeling for the heartbeat in this body of yours with his mouth. instead, he wakes up earlier than you (not so early as to chill the bed) and works with calloused perseverance, scrambling eggs into an omelette and pouring coffee into a mug, setting it on a plate on the dinner table for you and daniel. instead, he lets his phone ring while he teaches you how to brush your hair. “hell can wait,” he says, smiling. he washes the dirty dishes.

every time you go up to heaven, he watches you, neck craned high.

for wild seconds, you think about spray-painting your wings black. then you’re back in heaven, chest and rib-cage thumping with the echoes of his arms. he kissed you goodbye, and nothing more. “don’t tell micheal i miss him,” he said. “and come back before daniel comes home from practice.”

you fly into your rooms, and israfel sits on your bed, holding a bowl of oil. he looks at you, smiling bright and full. he sets the bowl of oil down, and you press your forehead against his, sharing grace with all the whispers of a “welcome home, brother/sister” connected down the the glands of your wings.   
  
“i got you some myrrh,” he whispers, gesturing to the bowl as you lie down. “it’s to help you cover the scent of peat and cedarwood.”

“i haven’t told him yet that you know.” you answer. “so i cannot tell you what he wishes you to hear.”   
  
israfel hums, and you think of the cut clovers that rest on the sidewalk when the lawnmower chops them up. you think about the sprig of dried roses on the windowsill, and of the gleaming trumpet daniel practices for band. the clink of silver wine glasses. of smooth warm river stones under your bare feet. you like to think that god saw the human depiction of an angel and decided to mold israfel out of it. purifying, clean air.

you think wildly for a second of israfel with black wings, and you shudder. israfel shoves you to a comfortable position, and sighs at the state of your wings. “tell him that i miss him as well,” he says.   
  
“i love him,” you say.  
  
israfel puffs in laughter. “you always have, foolish as the idea is.”   
  
“he’s different now.”   
  
“they always are, sibling. no matter what the others think, there was no exception for him.”

you shiver as israfel threads his soft warrior hands through your wings, relaxing with each brush. “that’s not what i meant. i mean that he could be redeemed.”   
  
the hands still for a second, and then continue. the tiredness, the doubts, the worry and the tiny tendril of hope all bombard your grace in that smallness that is israfel’s alone. “gabriel,” he says as a warning. “that has never happened before. what if he is not capable of it? what would you do?”   
  
you sink your tiny human shell into israfel’s warmth, and close your eyes. you think about how ramiel presses against you in the bus seats, how when he walks into the interrogation room to defend the defenseless he gives you a thumbs-up, how alice once asked him if he was an angel too and he croaked out with his morning voice a horrid “don’t patronize me for what you don’t get, alice.”

how he holds his hands clenched with that phone in his pocket, tying up his hair with a rubber band and wishing.  _i haven’t seen my wings since the Fall. don’t think i will ever want to, either._

_i think the only good thing about this is now i know how to really love you. i think god gave me a lesson on making sure i can keep you safe._

“whatever you believe, he will never permit me to go to extremes,” you answer. “if he is not capable of it, i can visit him every year.”

____

(“how would you feel about being forgiven?”  
  
“if i could tell you, i would. if i could show you, i would.”)


End file.
